


Algiers

by fajrdrako



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:42:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fajrdrako/pseuds/fajrdrako
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doyle needs to find Bodie, but Bodie is on the run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Algiers

**Author's Note:**

> First appeared in [**Concupiscence #5**](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Concupiscence), April 1997.

The path that took Doyle to Algiers was long and expensive. He expected no less. It took seven months and considerable aggravation, and in the end stubbornness paid off.

He sat in the lobby of the Hotel Regente waiting for the man he had come to meet. According to the terms of his appointment, he wore a hello T-shirt with a brown jacket over it, feeling ostentatiously British in a crowd of Frenchmen, _ces maudits Americains_ , and Algerians. He wished he could remember more than a smattering of Arabic. It put him at a disadvantage.

Sod it: he wasn't really here to hire Bodie.

He was using the alias Alec Morse, a compendium of the names of two favorite characters from crime fiction. He preferred the pseudonym Ray Duncan, but that would be instantly recognizable by Bodie. He knew Bodie would refuse to deal with anyone named Ray Duncan. Wouldn't even make the appointment. The name Doyle was out of the question.

It was seven months, two weeks, and four days now, since he'd last seen Bodie. Bodie with a gun, on top of the gasometer. Bodie thrusting the gun into his hands and walking out of his life, walking past Marikka's corpse, walking past and away from the Controller he had worked for with such dedication until that moment of death and despair. After that he had simply disappeared.

It was difficult, then, to find him. Difficult, but not impossible. Though Cowley could not waste his resources on the search, Doyle continued to hunt through every means he could think of. Cowley helped him covertly, and even called in a few favors from MI6.

It was clear that Bodie had left the country.

Bodie had many resources at his command. Long ago, it seemed, he had learned from Barry Martin to always have an escape route. He had acquaintances, if not friends, all over the globe. He could have gone anywhere.

Success came seven months later, and brought Doyle to an appointment with Bodie by the spotted fern with the creaking fan circling above him. The payoff had come in answer to Alec Morse's carefully worded query after a mercenary with certain experience and characteristics, a resume so closely designed to match Bodie's skills that it should be irresistible.

And Bodie, at last, had not resisted. Through complex channels, the message had come, which led to this appointment between arms agent Alec Morse and the highly-skilled mercenary W.A.P. Bodie.

The Hotel Regente had seen better days, probably in the 1920s. There was now an aura of seedy pretense about it, dim lighting used to disguise the peeling paint and cracked plaster. It brought to mind all the colonial-Africa movies Doyle had ever seen, as if by waiting long enough he would see Tyrone Power or Humphrey Bogart stride in.

 

Christ, he was nervous. His palms were damp. Barry Martin would thump him. And he wasn't facing a dreaded enemy, after all. He was about to face Bodie, the best friend he'd ever had.

That was worse.

He ordered something that sounded exotic and tasted like watered cold tea with cheap rum in it.

Would Bodie have changed? He though of the furious, driven man he had last seen and could not reconcile it with any reality. Or with the Bodie he had known, the good-natured mate who was usually good for a round and a practical joke on Murph or Tony (deceased_ or Tommy (deceased) or King (deceased) or -- well, at least Bodie wasn't deceased, but it had been a close thin, the way MI6 and Schuman had set him up.

No wonder he had gone to ground.

 _Why didn't he come to me?_ Doyle asked himself for the millionth time. He had no answer. Bodie had ceased to trust him. Hadn't even spoken to him after that disastrous scene on the gasometer. Perhaps he had seen him outside the hotel in London, thought he was in league with the MI6 agents. Doyle couldn't guess.

Unless it had something to do with an earlier conversation that haunted him still.

He sipped his tepid drink and waited.

When Bodie appeared for this god-damned appointment he might find out. Bodie was late. Doyle glanced at his watch. No, he wasn't. Though Doyle felt as if he had been waiting on eon -- seven months, two weeks and four days, in fact -- he had been her e less than ten minutes and he was still early.

Alec Morse, intrepid international arms dealer, would not be nervous.

This was a hotel for westerners, into which a few Japanese had wandered. Doyle could hear the cadences of Russian in the babble. A girl approached him, smiling, and then walked away when she saw his frown.

Then Bodie walked in.

Doyle saw him first. His reaction was a flood of relief: Bodie hadn't changed. Somehow missed among the fears of his imagination had been the illusion that Bodie had turned into Krivas, ugly and hard.

Bodie looked as he always had, on the job or off it. A damned good looking man, neatly dressed, with his dark hair and striking eyes, tall and well-built., moving the the easy motion of a man in top condition. In the heat of Algeria he didn't wear the turtlenecks and leather coats he had favored in London. Instead it was a light cotton shirt over cool cream-colored trousers. Suited him.

two steps into the room, Bodie saw Doyle.

Doyle could see each thought on his face, though his expression revealed nothing. He knew the moment of shock that Bodie thought he hid. He could tell the instant realization that this was the man he was come to meet; the knowledge and understanding that it was a set-up and that Alec Morse was nothing more than an excuse to find him. He could see the numbing horror that overcame Bodie at the sight of him.

Doyle had thought that curiosity would see him through. At the very least an angry, "What are you doing here?" At best, a laugh, a hug, a welcome reunion, a resumption of friendship and return to their former closeness and even, possibly, more.

Instead Bodie turned on his heel and walked out the door.

Cursing, Doyle followed. 

Bodie had the head start, and he knew Algiers. Doyle had already discovered the city was a labyrinth. It would be fatal to let Bodie get out of sight. Doyle was lucky enough to glimpse him running around a corner, and was desperate enough to half catch up with him before Bodie had rounded another corner and was out of sight again.

Running was one of Doyle's finest talents, and he was fresh from a training session with Macklin and Towser. Bodie was not going to escape him.

They raced down several streets, over a wall, through an alley. At the next junction, Bodie could have gone either way. Taking a guess to the right, Doyle plunged pinto the dimness and saw Bodie at the very next turn, no more than ten feet away. Bodie had stopped.

He had his gun in his hand. The familiar Walther PPK that he liked so much. He shut his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall, and lifted the gun.

Before Doyle could understand what was happening, Bodie had pointed the barrel into his mouth.

Doyle shouted, "No!", and moved fast enough to kick the gun out of his hand, foot impacting with jaw almost hard enough to break it.

The gun discharged. the noise echoed and disappeared with grotesque suddenness, the bullet harmlessly chipping a wall.

Bodie fell against the brick behind him and sideways to the ground. He covered his face with his hands.

Doyle picked up the gun. He thrust it into his inner pocket. His hand was shaking. He said harshly, "You fucking idiot. You could kill someone that way." He couldn't believe he had seen what he had just seen, but his nerves, driven into hyperdrive, were reacting like tension wires. Bodie wouldn't try to kill himself. Not Bodie. Not now.

Bodie raised his head. His lip had split, and was bleeding. He did to wipe it off. He looked at Doyle for a long moment. Then he grinned that absurdly familiar Bodie grin and said, "hullo and good morning to you too, Ray. Been a while."

"Is that how you greet all your old friends?"

Bodie put a hand to his tender jaw. "Is that how you do?"

Doyle sat beside him. "What'd you do that for?" Bodie's calmness frightened him as much as his action had. He tried to clear his brain, tried to understand. Bodie had always had a temper, but he had also been strong and stable. Doyle had depended on that strength and stability, would have staked his life on it. How badly had he misjudged Bodie?

More painful too was the rejection it implied. He had wanted Bodie to be happy to see him. Had expected it, though he supposed, if he though of it, that Bodie would have been in touch if he'd wanted to see him.

But he had nursed hopes of something friendly, something warm. Instead there was no greeting, friendly or otherwise. No pleasure in seeing him. Just a violent fatal gesture.

Doyle made fists of his hands to stop their shaking.

"I felt like it," answered Bodie. The offhand statement hid a multitude of thoughts.

"Why?"

"none of your bloody business." It was said without rancor, even with a touch of regret.

Doyle closed his eyes and opened them again. Under his African tan, Bodie was pale. The long-lashed blue eyes hid many thoughts, and revealed more than Bodie could possibly have wanted them to. A streak of desperation, perhaps even appeal.

Frightened of what that implied, Doyle tried to match Bodie's outwardly casual style. "Going to invite me home for a pint?"

Bodie shut his eyes again, his back to the wall. Perhaps he guessed what they revealed. thoughts hidden, buried, kept dormant for seven months, two weeks, four days and a few hours now.

"Don't fall asleep on me," said Doyle angrily. "You have a home?"

"Several." Outwardly amused, Bodie opened his eyes. "Including one here in Algiers."

"Well, then? I haven't come all this way to stand in an alleyway with a suicidal merc and discuss the weather. Let's go."

"You want to discuss the weather with a suicidal merc in the comfort of his flat?" There was bitterness to the flat tone, but Doyle found this comforting to him, as if Bodie had admitted his turmoil.

"Damn right."

"You'll be disappointed."

"I'll take my chances." Doyle stood up.

Bodie grinned wryly. "Always were a gambler, weren't you?" Without expecting an answer, he held out his arm. "Help me up, then."

Doyle pulled him up. Bodie had lost weight, none of it muscle. Doyle said, "C'mon, then." Despite his bravado, Bodie was unsteady on his feet. "Move it." Doyle took his arm to support him.

Bodie pulled away. "I'm under arrest, am I?"

"Yeah, and in my custody." He smiled, trying to make his concern seem light. Bodie did not smile in return, though Doyle thought he saw an acceptance in the wary blue eyes.

They walked through several winding streets, not touching. Doyle let Bodie take the lead. "Alec Morse," said Bodie reflectively, as they walked. "You're good, Doyle. I had him researched and he came up aces."

"I should hope so. Comes as a surprise, does it?"

"That you're good? Naw, I remembered that. Didn't think you could take care of yourself without me, though."

"Neither did I," said Doyle. He thought of the hell he had gone through for seven months. He had expected to tell Bodie about it, how he'd missed him, what it had been like without his partnership. And Bodie had shut that door, and bolted it with one decisive action, made it impossible for Doyle to speak, made it clear he didn't want frank talk.

Doyle felt his nerves tingle with every step. Bodie seemed the same, and yet…the Bodie he had known did not try to blast itself to oblivion. The Bodie he had known was a CI5 agent, not a bitter expatriate. The Bodie he had known had loved England, had loved his work; had loved Doyle.

Now he would rather die abruptly in an alley than talk to his former partner. He seemed calm enough now, and amenable to taking Doyle back to his place. As far as Doyle could imagine, Bodie had no reason to want to kill him, so it probably was not a trap.

The habit of trusting Bodie was not one he wanted to drop. How much could he have changed? Doyle hard no way to judge. Just as he could not imagine why Bodie would want to kill himself.

The thought kept his nerves on edge. To be so close, and to almost lose it all -- Christ! Had he been chasing an illusion all this time?

They went through a gateway, and under an arch, and into a luxurious courtyard. Bodie led the way without comment up the stairs to a flat on the second level, and unlocked the door. 

Inside, the air was clean-smelling, with a whiff of frankincense. The ceilings were high. The furniture was tastefully sparse and subtly elegant, half western, half not. No trace of Bodie's personality or taste was visible.

A young man in black jeans and an expensive T-shirt was lounging on the low chesterfield. He stood as they entered, and said something in Arabic to Bodie. Bodie answered in French at first, "Mon ami d'Angleterre," then added something in rapid Arabic.

The young man replied sharply, walking over to Bodie. His dark eyes had a piercing stare which Bodie met with the same controlled amusement he gave to most people and most things.

Bodie said, "This is my friend Jean-Pierre."

Jean-Pierre did not so much as glance in Doyle's direction. Instead he said something with suppressed anger, and put his hand to Bodie's cheek, thumb gently touching the dried blood on the cut lip. Bodie said something in Arabic -- perhaps, Doyle guessed from the tone, "It doesn't matter." The proprietary, smoldering glance did not waver. Its implication was unquestionably sexual, the interplay on of unconcealed intimacy.

Doyle wanted to hit Jean-Pierre in his smug, possessive face. It didn't matter what their relationship was, it was clear that Jean-Pierre knew nothing of what Bodie felt, knew nothing of his despair, had no idea that he had tried to shoot himself today and had come close to succeeding.

Jean-Pierre himself was not happy with Bodie's reply. He said something in anger and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

"Friend?" said Doyle, a little more sharply than he should have.

Bodie shrugged. Then he smirked, just the way he used to in London when they were discussing some bird. "He's jealous of you. Thought you wanted to take me back to London with you. Somehow he got the idea you bashed m in the jaw. Can't imagine why he'd think that."

"Recognized my shoe print on your face, probably. Can I have a drink?"

"If you want a pint, go back to London. I haven't tasted real beer since I left England. You might be able to get some watery substitute at your hotel."

"Don't have a hotel. Wanted to see you first."

"Hoped for free lodging, again? Cowley's expense account was always on the niggardly side. If you're thirsty, I have lemonade, Pepsi or fruit juice in the fridge. If you want a mood=lightener, there's some has in stock --"

"Juice is fine. Cowley has nothing to do with my being here."

Bodie went to the refrigerator. "Right. Always the health nut, weren't you?" He tossed him a bottle of nice, which Doyle opened and drank, welcoming its cold wetness. The weight of Bodie's gun in his jacket was distracting. He could not stop thinking of Bodie with that gun self-destructively in his hand.

He watched now as Bodie sat, relaxed, on the chesterfield, his legs stretched out. His frame had always been sturdy, but he had lost weight in seven months. The new leanness accentuated the hint of menace that he could assume at will; he looked like a dangerous man. Doyle wondered whether Bodie had been eating properly. Probably not.

But he looked good. He looked damn good, even with the trace of blood on his lip and his eyes glittering with hard-hidden feeling. Doyle found himself staring like a starving man. Even after the dusty alley, his light clothes were barely soiled. The eerie reminder of casual evenings in his London flat made Doyle take a deep breath.

This was both easier and harder than he had imagined. He didn't know where to start. He was frightened of the implications. Death had been so close. And if Bodie died, if Bodie died that way, what would be left to Doyle? He could not imagine.

To come this far, and to almost lose Bodie -- and why, for Christ's sake, what had he done that warranted that kind of greeting? What had he done to trigger a despair so great it could not be expressed?

But he had to learn what it was. He had to know what Bodie was, now, and what drove him. Had to know what had driven him from England seven months ago. Unless he knew that, he had no hope at all. For either of them.

Seven months had not tempered Bodie's pain, that was clear. Seven months, and he was as close to the edge as when he had left home. Africa had not cured him; Africa would destroy him. Doyle had to take him home. How to convince him of that?

"Of course," said Bodie calmly, "Jean-Pierre might have reason to be jealous of you. He doesn't know why you came here. Neither do I." And he waited expectantly.

"Why him?" He tried to keep the resentment, the jealousy out of his voice.

"You mean, stead of women? Women don't have sexual freedom here. Not like in England. There are two options. I could rent them -- but I don't fancy whores. Or I could permanently own one. I don't fancy the responsibility -- whether you call it marriage or something else. So I take sex where I find it. Jean-Pierre is good." Doyle flinched. "I'm teaching him my trade."

"Which trade is this?"

"Soldiering."

"I bet you are."

"Trained by the best -- Krivas and the SAS, the some of England's finest. Can't let the legacy of Macklin and Shusai go to waste."

"Like your life?"

Bodie raised his eyebrows. The motion -- so familiar, so warmly remembered -- made Doyle's breath catch. He hoped he hid the reaction. "Judgmental, aren't we?" said Bodie smoothly. "I'm successful. I'm making more money than I ever did in CI5, or ever would."

"Not difficult."

"Respected in my profession --"

"Aw, give it up. I saw you try to blow your head off twenty minutes ago." His anger stretched through the words.

"That wasn't because of my life here. That was because of you."

There was nothing light about the answer.

Doyle slammed the empty juice bottle down on the table. "Damn you, Bodie. Don't blame me for your problems. I was always a good friend two you."

"were you?" Bodie's tone was cold.

"I'd have died for you, mate, and you know it."

"Marikka might have said the same," said Bodie, in an off-hand fashion. "Before she stabbed me in the back. Don't ask me to trust you, Doyle, I just might do it. And it would be the death of me."

"aren't you even a little bit pleased to see me?"

"No." Relentlessly honest about it, Bodie met his stare. "Is there any reason I should be? I don't put a gun in my mouth whenever I meet an old friend. Marry would be astonished."

"So am I."

"I wanted to never see you again." That struck hard; for seven months, Doyle had wanted nothing except to see Bodie again.

"Why?" he asked.

Bodie looked down, and for once didn't answer.

Doyle didn't show merge. Desperately he said, "Once, you said you loved me."

One night in London. One night not long before the end, not long before Marikka came back, not long before that unforgettable scene at the gasometer. One night at Doyle's flat, after a successful job and a close call with mutual death, when they had seemed as aligned in though and feeling as two people would be, Bodie had said, "I love you, Ray," and had gripped him by the shoulders and kissed him on the lips.

It wasn't the first time a man had made a pass at Doyle. But this wasn't just some bloke, this was Bodie. And it was the first time Doyle had been at a loss. Couldn't very well blacken Bodie's eye just for liking him…loving him. Didn't know what to think, what to say, and most of all, had no idea what to feel. Didn't know what he wanted.

So he'd stood, stunned. Might have made a joke of it -- except that Bodie was already drawing away, knowing himself rejected, making light of it for Doyle's sake: "Don't worry, mate, I won't do that again," he'd said, and he hadn't. He'd left right after that. And Doyle had watched a late movie on television, too distracted to hear a word of it, and had gone to bed, where sleep eluded him. He lay staring at the ceiling, wondering how he could know Bodie so well and not know him well enough. Wondering how he could know himself so well, and not know himself at all.

Bodie had given him no opportunity to reopen the subject. Not that he had tried. Time, he'd though, would heal his desperate confusion. Bodie seemed content to return to the status quo, the easy friendship they had enjoyed since their partnership had shifted from mutual irritation to mutual joking about.

But that had been no joke.

Relieved not to have to deal with heavier issues, Doyle ignored it when Bodie became abstracted. He let it go when Bodie broke a few of their double dates with no obvious reason. He thought it was because of the attraction between them, something that was almost mutual, if only he could reach for it. If their friendship, or his perception of the friendship, had shifted again, Bodie might be feeling a little sensitive. Not that he'd show it. But…

But Doyle had thought he'd never shot the other either. The other thing. Love.

He had thought at first that when Bodie failed to appear for a weekend date with two lovely girls, that it was because he didn't want to spend an evening with Doyle in a sexually charged situation. Or perhaps that he was jealous. Doyle rather liked that interpretation.

It wasn't to be expected that it would be the same as before. Whatever Bodie acted like, whatever close opt of the old camaraderie they managed, it was different. It was different because regardless of Bodie's feelings, Doyle's had changed. He didn't know how. He didn't know why. He didn't even know _what._ He just knew that he could recognize Bodie as the most important person in his life and that the implications were terrifying.

If Bodie was withdrawing, he could understand it. If he had been the one to say…what Bodie had said…and to get all the response of a statue in January, he might back off himself. He might look for distractions elsewhere, and share less time with someone whose presence was a reminder of that moment of disappointment.

Or did it go deeper than that?

Dole didn't know and didn't ask. He let Bodie have his personal space, because he needed it himself. Needed to think. He pursued a few birds with unaccustomed vigor, trig to sort out the sexual orientation thing. Never thought of himself as bent before, even if you counted some wayward fantasies he'd never expected to explore in the flesh. He didn't feel any different than he ever had. And yet, thinking about Bodie made him feel things he'd seldom felt about any person at all.

He'd always noticed some things about Bodie. He'd recognized the stamina, strength, agility and speed that were so impressive. The way Bodie could leap over a car, or a fence, or chase a perpetrator, or roll under gunfire with that unholy grin…It had an edge now, an edge that ran across Doyle's nerves like a drug. Like an aphrodisiac.

Bodie's fault: he was too damn good looking.

Doyle thought about him. Kept an eye on him. Noticed more and more of the soft skin of the inner arm and the hard muscle of the bicep, the intensity of the eyes, the darkness of his lashes, the way his eyebrow bent, the sensuousness of the lush mouth.

It wasn't just the looks. The quirk of the eyebrow, the upward tilt of the mouth when something amused him. The personality that struck fire from Doyle's that made their conversation pure gold, transmuted from the mundane clay of other conversations. And he couldn't pin down why. Bodie had called it love; was that possible?

Damn it, he didn't even think of his girlfriends with this intensity.

Who could he discuss it with? Dr. Sinclair? Tell Sin, and it'd be on his record, and probably Bodie's too. Tendencies. Had to watch, before it got blown out of all proportion. Cowley? He'd lecture him on agent-agent involvement and double the workload just to get his mind off it. A girl? Unthinkable. A friend? There was no one he trusted like Bodie.

So he could talk to Bodie about it, couldn't he? If Bodie liked men, in a general sort of way, as much as women, or sometimes instead of women, or however it was, he might have some wisdom and a dice. But the specific personal nature of the problem made it tricky. He couldn't very well tell Bodie he was attracted to him without understanding what he felt.

So he had waited. Little by little, he had more insight. When one day Bodie brought his car to a screeching halt two inches from Doyle's Capri, and had grinned at him through the open window, Doyle had felt a surge of lust that made him want to leap into the other car. And with it had come other thoughts: had BOdie been battling such urges? Was that kiss in the flat just the last, irresistible vestige of weeks or months of unsatisfied desire?

He did not know, but he knew that his response to Bodie was growing from fondness to fascination. It was becoming intensely physical, so that thinking about him gave him a rush that was sometimes overwhelming. Fantasies that he never would have considered before filled his head. Sexual impulses centered on Bodie, irresistibly and enticingly.

He wanted more.

He thought he began to have a sense of what Bodie might have been feeling, dreams and feelings running through his head and feeding his cock, which as always had a mind of its own when it came to objects of desire.

Or perhaps Bodie felt none of this. Perhaps a vague affection and an impulse to kiss had been all it was. Instead of a relief, the idea filled him with disappointment, followed by fear. He wanted…needed…Bodie to want him. Bodie was increasingly important to his well-being.

Or had this been happening for a while, and he had never recognized it?

Bodie became more abstracted. Moody. He had secrets. There were those broken double dates and then Cowley's command to follow him. So he had followed him, to a hotel, an assignation, and an assassination.

The woman had been Marikka, a ghost from Bodie's past who had, it seemed, meant more to him than Doyle had.

Then the Germans and MI6 had set them up, intending one or both of them to die. Bodie had survived and Marikka had taken a fatal bullet. She died claiming to love Bodie. Had died on her husband's order, probably because, all other considerations aside, he did not want her to love Bodie above all else.

And having known Bodie, how could she not?

She had died before Doyle's eyes, and Bodie came down the ladder with fury in his face. Doyle had felt everything she had felt -- not the death, but the love, the knowledge of what Bodie was and what he was worth. Which was something indescribable. Something more important than anything else Doyle had known, ever. Unaccustomed to soul-deep love, he had not recognized it when it hit him. Accustomed to Bodie's presence, it had taken gunfire on a gasometer to make him realize how close he had come to losing Bodie forever and how painful it would be.

Bodie, furious and bereft, had thrust his gun at Doyle and gone away.

Forever.

And it was happening again, the terrifying possibility of losing Bodie to death on this hot morning in Algiers seven months later. This time the danger threatening him was self-inflicted death, treated casually and callously by the man who had pursued it.

Doyle thought he had faced the worse, but this was more horrifying than anything he had imagined. Not just the self-destruction, but the casual attitude to it. The refusal to confide. The deliberate exclusion of Doyle from his life.

He had to fight back, though he didn't know the battleground and couldn't imagine what Bodie was thinking. So he said, "Once, you said you loved me."

"I was hoping you'd forgotten."

"Was it true?"

"It was true when I said it," But Bodie had turned away, hiding the expression of those blue eyes, shadowed by dark lashes, and the lush voice revealed a he artful of secrets he did not want to betray.

Doyle urged him closer to the unspoken truth. He couldn't afford to be gentle -- the like kick in the teeth, it had to be all or nothing, or he would lose BOdie to the forces consuming him. "Is it true now?"

Bodie looked at him sharply. "What do you care? That was a long time ago."

"Seven months. Could be yesterday." Those months without Bodie had seemed to last forever. Now, seeing him again, it felt as if no time had passed, as if they had merely pause din conversation -- a conversation that was, in essence, the same one they had interrupted on that wet London night. Except that in their intervening blink of an eye, Bodie had turned thin and hard and bitter and turned to death as a refuge.

"Could be seven years, the way it feels."

"Well?"

Bodie said, "I hated you. What did you expect? I loved you and you betrayed me. So did Marikka. So did Cowley. How the hell could I not hate you?"

"Damn you! How dare you think I'd set you up? Or that Cowley would?"

"You saw what happened! He was conniving with MI6 --"

"Not to kill you, mate!"

"Maybe not, but MI6 wanted to have me killed because I was expendable. They needed Schuman. I was convenient, wasn't I? marikka didn't even know I was in CI5. But she went along with them -- with you. A double betrayal, Doyle. Triple."

"Not me. I wasn't part of it."

"Oh, yes, you were. I saw you with her."

"What? Where?"

"I went to your apartment. There you were, cozy as cousins."

"I was interrogating her. For your sake."

"Hah! Iv'e seen how you interrogate birds."

Doyle said, "Cowley mourned for you as if he'd lost a son. I've been looking for you, thinking of you, for seven months."

Bodie sneered. "Sure you have. Not everyone makes such a convenient patsy. You knew I'd do anything for you, even stand in front of a bullet. I'm a glutton for punishment aren't I? I let Marikka sucker me twice. I let you use me. I'd do it again. Can't defend myself against you, you see. You could persuade me of whatever you want to persuade me of. Is that the story, Ray? You want me back in London? You want me on Cowley's team? Fighting for a better life for all?"

"You liked that life once."

"I was a fool. I believed too much. You see, Cowley was right. We have to sacrifice those we love. And then we watch that love kill us, little by little. You think it wouldn't happen again Doyle? You think I could ever stop loving you? Then the next time it happened…The next time expediency, or policy, or the Ministry decreed that you had to sacrifice me for the greater good, I'd go through it all again. Assuming there was anything left of me to sacrifice. I couldn't survive that. Leave me at least the dignity of independence."

"Dignity?" said Doyle. "You liar. You were happier with me in England than you've ever been."

"That's not relevant. You think I can live on lies? Go try it with someone else, Ray. I've made myself a life here." He rose, suddenly dangerous, suddenly the Bodie of the SAS or Ci5, implacable, "Go get on with yours."

"Not without you."

Bodie's move was almost too fast to see. If Doyle had not been fresh from Macklin's regime, Bodie would have overpowered him. As it was, he sidestepped just in time, so that Bodie's lunge set him off balance. Bodie recovered fast. Life in Africa had not made him soft, clearly.

Doyle matched him, force for force. They struggled, crashed over a pillow, fell.

And Doyle realized from the strength of Bodie's blows that he was desperate, but that his goal was not to hurt Doyle. H was fighting hard and fighting seriously, but not as he would fight an enemy: he was taking the only path he could find to his goal. He wanted one thing only: the gun, and the death it would bring.

"No," said Doyle, out of breath, pressing Bodie back on the floor, holding him down. "No." And as Bodie struggled to get up, using a leverage that would throw Doyle aside, his fingers cruel on Doyle's wrists, Doyle dropped his head and kissed him on the mouth.

Bodie stopped fighting.

It was perhaps the clumsiest kiss of Doyle's life. That didn't matter. He could not judge its effect on Bodie, except that Bodie was no longer fighting him. He could only judge its effect on himself -- the rush of arousal, the pounding of his heart as he fought for breath against the wild heat of Bodie's mouth.

It was like nothing he'd ever imagined.

He had never guessed it could be so easy, so intoxicating. He had thought there would be endless talk, persuasion, the slow careful steps towards a deeper relationship.

Instead, the excitement in his veins, the trembling of his body as Bodie's hands wandered over him, pulling off his jacket -- neither of them thought of the gun, now -- unbuttoning his shirt, unzipping his jeans. He in turn touched Bodie with insatiable hands, tasting his neck and chest and fingers, craving more, and still more.

Clothes tossed aside, they pressed together, trembling. Groaning with uneven breath. They spoke -- curtailed words, muted murmurs, instructions, pleas -- but they needed no words, or even thoughts.

Touching Bodie was a heady sensation, driving him into mindlessness. And Bodie, touching him, was uncontrolled. Here was the strain of all the thad happened -- betrayal, exile, lost love, loneliness -- distilled into physical expression. And for Doyle…it was the end of a long wait, the end of the tension of seven months and two weeks of searching, hopping and needing.

Bodie's lips and tongue were on his neck, as they lay writhing. On an expensive carpet in a tangle of tossed-off clothes, they tasted and touched and sucked each other. Doyle moaned as Bodie's hands explored his chest, his back, his things, his arse, his cock, hair. Bodies' tongue explored his ears, the breath hot and erratic. Doyle felt the hard cock against his pelvis, and he strained against it, letting its motion inflame his own hardness.

It was like flying, where the air was thin and he could not breathe. On his back his hands grasping at Bodie's skin, he felt Bodie's ears against his cheek as he nuzzled his neck and the soft, wispy tickle of his fine hair. They twisted onto their sides, rolling, holding each other goth. He felt the stickiness of Bodie's cock and realized how close he was to coming just as Bodie raised his head and looked into his eyes.

That electric blue stare as Bodie climaxed pulled Doyle into it. Doyle yowled like a cat and let it happen.

They climaxed together, letting it consume them.

After, they lay quietly. Bodie, on the bottom, lying flat on his back with Doyle on top of him. One leg, bent, rested against Doyle's hip. Bodie played absently with the curly hair, wrapping a lock loosely around one finger and then another.

Doyle, his lips quietly against Bodie's shoulder, lifted his head and said, "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why were you trying to kill yourself?"

"Because of you." He said it as if it didn't matter.

Doyle tightened his hold. He wanted to comfort, to soothe. He had driven Bodie to this, never wanting to, never meaning to. "Why?"

"Couldn't bear it…that I was as vulnerable to you as I'd ever been. Even after what happened, even after seven months, even after convincing myself I hated you…I was oct as I'd ever been at the sight of you." He stroked Doyle's cheek. "Couldn't help myself, could I? But I couldn't afford to let myself go again. To be your pawn, and Cowley's. Or to endlessly want you, when you didn't want me."

"Stupid crud. I do want you."

"So it seems. I didn't know."

Doyle raised himself a little, to look down into bemused blue eyes. Puzzlement gazed back at him and a kind of question.

"I didn't," said Bodie. "You don't know what it was like, Doyle. Loving you, in London -- you had no idea. Then when I said -- well, it was clear you didn't want me. I thought for a bit I could forget with Marikka, but that didn't happen. All I saw around me was betrayal. I couldn't let it go on, Ray. Not any more."

"Should have talked to me," said Doyle. "I'd already changed my mind. I already loved you."

Bodie shook his head. "What were you waiting for? You should have told me. It was the most important thing in my life, and you didn't let me know. I thought…there was nothing more left for me. Just denial and deception. Rejection. That was why I left."

"And when you saw me again, you didn't even give me a chance to talk."

"How could I? I thought you wanted me back in London, with CI5. Knew I couldn't say no to you, and it'd be the same all over again. Couldn't bear to think of it. Couldn't stand to see you and let it happen." His hand, stroking Doyle's head over and over, stopped moving. "So death seemed the best option. To let you feel the sting of loss…before you could betray me. Failed again, didn't I?"

"I don't want you dead."

"That was the point, wasn't it?"

"And now?"

Bodie smiled a warm, slow, tender smile. "And now I might have what I wanted, if I can believe in it. I might be the happiest bloke in Africa. Even if this is all we ever have --"

"Shut up!"

"Eh?"

"It doesn't end here!" Doyle tweaked Bodie's ear. "You hear me, you prat? This isn't all we have. We have a lifetime ahead of us."

"Do we." Bodie frowned.

"Come back to England with me."

"Stay in Africa with me?"

Doyle hadn't expected the question. He was English, through and through, and fully committed to CI5. And yet the answer to this question might be the most important one of his life. Bodie was asking him to throw away everything he had made of his life to this point. And yet…the demand was as fair as that he made of Bodie, to change the course of his life.

So he said carefully, "I would do anything to have you in my lie. If you want me here, I'll stay."

"Why?"

"Because I owe you that much. Because I want you on any terms you might offer. I don't have many arguments to offer. Nothing to negotiate with. I'd rather be in England. But most of all, if I've learned anything in this time, it's that I'd rather be with you."

"I warn you, I can be very demeaning. I might demand --"

"What?"

"More."

"It's yours."

"I might demand your love."

"It's yours."

"Truly?" The question was serious, the eyes dark. "No betrayals, this time? No ambiguity? No hesitation?"

"Nothing was ever so true, Bodie. I want you to come back and be with me. And even if you won't, I don't want to be without you."

Bodie's eyes held the blossoming of trust. They revealed, as if a door had opened, the love that had been born in those rough times in London, amidst the car chases and the gunfighters and the thankless dangerous job they did because they liked in and no one else could.

So Bodie made the concession. "I might go back," he said, cautiously.

"Be my partner again," said Doyle. "Come back to CI5."

Bodie stared at the ceiling as if he could see there the myriad possibilities, alternate futures arranging themselves before him. "No betrayal," he said. "Ever again."

"No trying to die," said Doyle. "Ever again."

Bodie looked at him, a soul-searching stare that softened, and warmed, and he touched his cheek, "Damn you," he said. "Ill have to trust you. That's what hurts, Doyle. Trust."

"Works both ways," said Doyle. "I make mistakes sometimes. So do you. But…have some faith in my love."

There was a long pause, as bode closed his eyes turned his head away. Then he looked back, the eyes bright. "Do you have faith in mine?"

"Absolutely. Why do you think I've been looking for you for almost eight months?"

"You didn't even know I'd want you still."

"I couldn't let you go. I had to find you…and go on trying til I did. I couldn't do anything else, Bodie."

Bodie looked thoughtful. He kissed a strand of Doyle's hair. "You'll need to use your influence with the Cow to get my job back. It's been seven months, Ray."

"I know how long it's been." Doyle sat up, wrapping his arms around his bare legs. He felt a thrill as Bodie put his arm lightly around him, and he found his skin tingling with pleasure. "To the minute. It's already done, mate. You were never off the books. Not even on suspension. You were on extended leave for…ah…duties overseas."

Bodie smiled, his breath tickling Doyle's ribs and he leaned his face against him, kissing the soft skin lightly. Gently, he laughed. It might have been the first time he had done so in seven months.

"As a matter of fact," said Bodie, "I learned a few things about Algerian agents in London."

"There, see?" Doyle rolled over, pulling Bodie to him, feeling the warm skin against his own. Though he had appeased the first frantic deluge of lust, he could feel its return, insidiously delightful, promising endless delights. He began to lightly, erratically, kiss Bodie's neck and arm, and then turned to his lips, tasting the trace of blood and the delicious softness.

"It's better than that," continued Doyle. His head tilted up for a kiss, Bodies' eyes were shining. "I got Cowley to sign you off as on extended duty overseas -- with pay. With back pay owing." He brushed Bodie's open mouth lightly with his, then kissed him briefly, then pulled back to look at the startled, flushed face.

"But I don't need --" Bodie looked comically baffled as he raised his face to Doyle's. Then his eyes refocussed. "Christ," he said in wonder. "You're a bloody miracle worker, aren't you?" And he wrapped his arms around Doyle, fingers caressing, promising more pleasure.

"C'mere and I'll show you again," said Doyle.

\- - -  



End file.
